The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [551]
29.
The Cat Formerly Known as Cheshire
Danish King in Tidal Command Fiasco
In another staggering display of Danish stupidity, King Canute of Denmark attempted to use his authority to halt the incoming tide, our reporters have uncovered. It didn’t, of course, and the dopey monarch was soaked. Danish authorities were quick to deny the story and rushed with obscene haste to besmirch the excellent and unbiased English press with the following lies: “For a start it wasn’t Canute—it was Cnut,” began the wild and wholly unconvincing tirade from the Danish minister of propaganda. “You English named him Canute to make it sound less like you were ruled by foreigners for two hundred years. And Cnut didn’t try to command the sea—it was to demonstrate to his overly flattering courtiers that the tide wouldn’t succumb to his will. And it all happened nine hundred years ago—if it happened at all.” King Canute himself was unavailable for comment.
Article in The Toad, July 18, 1988
We told the President that yes, he was right—the whole thing was some sort of motorway services theme park. Dowding and Parks were genuinely pleased to get their President back, and Yorrick Kaine canceled the vote in parliament. Instead he led a silent prayer to thank providence for returning Formby to our midst. As for Spike and me, we were each given a postdated check and told we would be sure to receive the Banjulele with Oak Clusters for our steadfast adherence to duty.
Spike and I parted after the tiring day’s work and I returned to the SpecOps office where I found a slightly annoyed Major Drabb waiting for me near my car.
“No Danish books found again, Agent Next!” he said through clenched teeth, handing me his report. “More failure and I will have to take the matter to higher authority.”
I glared at him, took a step closer and prodded him angrily in the chest. I needed Flanker off my back until the SuperHoop at the very least.
“You blame me for your failings?”
“Well,” he said, faltering slightly and taking a nervous step backwards as I moved even closer, “that is to say—”
“Redouble your efforts, Major Drabb, or I will have you removed from your command. Do you understand?”
I shouted the last bit, which I didn’t want to do—but I was getting desperate. I didn’t want Flanker on my back in addition to everything else that was going on.
“Of course,” croaked Drabb. “I take full responsibility for my failure.”
“Good,” I said, straightening up, “tomorrow you are to search the Australian Writers’ Guild in Wooten Bassett.”
Drabb dabbed his brow and made another salute.
“As you say, Miss Next.”
I tried to drive past the mixed bag of journalists and TV news crews, but they were more than insistent so I stopped to say a few words.
“Miss Next,” said a reporter from ToadSports, jostling with the five or six other TV crews trying to get the best angle, “what is your reaction to the news that five of the Mallets team members have withdrawn following death threats?”
This was news to me but I didn’t show it.
“We are in the process of signing new players to the team—”
“Miss Manager, with only five players in your team, don’t you think it better to just withdraw?”
“We’ll be playing, I assure you.”
“What is your response to the rumor that the Reading Whackers have signed ace player Bonecrusher McSneed to play forward hoop?”
“The same as always—the SuperHoop will be a momentous victory for Swindon.”
“And what about the news that you have been declared ‘unfit to manage’ given your highly controversial move of putting Biffo on defense?”
“Positions on the field are yet to be decided and are up to Mr. Jambe. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”
I started the engine again and drove away from the SpecOps Building, the news crews still shouting questions after me. I was big news again, and I didn’t like it.
I arrived home just in time to rescue Mother from having to make more tea for Friday.
“Eight fish fingers!” she muttered, shocked by his greed. “Eight!”
“That’s nothing,” I replied, putting my paycheck into a novelty